


Types of Pride

by NoTittyBimbo



Category: Jreg, The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Beating, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:47:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24519451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoTittyBimbo/pseuds/NoTittyBimbo
Summary: Homonationalist and Post-Leftist meet at Pride. But what does pride mean to them?
Relationships: Ancom/Homonationalist, Homonationalist/Nazi, Post-leftist/Homonationalist, Queer Unity
Comments: 4
Kudos: 65





	1. First Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Homonationalist meets Post-Leftist at a Pride Parade, saves quem from some cops, and takes quem back to his place. But what will Postie do when qui finds out that Homonationalist is a fascist?!

Homonationalist hated that he was going to Pride alone. His friends and him used to go in full drag, but those queens had all stopped talking to him a while ago, all because he had the gaul to speak out against the greatest threat to gay rights, Islamism. Then he would go with whatever top on Grindr would hold his hand during the parade in exchange for a half-hearted blowjob afterwards. But this year, he had a boyfriend, so he couldn’t do that either.

Of course, the obvious answer was to take his boyfriend, Nazi, but that whole thing was more of a DL situation. Homonationalist liked a lot about Nazi - he was strong, opinionated, and well-dressed - but he hated that Nazi was so ashamed of him, his “disgusting femboy girlfriend,” as he said. Well, Homonationalist thought to himself, he didn’t need anyone anyway. He looked cute tonight, with his short pink skirt and his oversized pink sailor tie. The world is filled with repressed “straight” guys, and if anyone could get that straightness to bend, it was him.

Homonationalist made his way through the crowd, trying to find a good spot. He was hoping to find someone worth standing next to, but everyone who showed up was either an effeminate soyboy or a woman, neither of which was something he was interested in. He settled in a spot where he could at least see the degeneracy as it unfolded. There was a group of protestors nearby, with signs about family values, but he didn’t mind someone with some differing opinions. Honestly, the Homonationalist probably had more in common with them politically than he did with the rest of the crowd.

When it started, he remembered why he always regretted going to Pride. It had become so sterilized. There was a time when chiseled jocks would prance around in ball gags while bears kept twinks on leashes. But nowadays, the gay community wanted to pretend that pride was a respectable event, the kind of thing that you could invite kids to, so the ball gags had to go. Like there was anything kid-friendly about a bunch of degenerates celebrating how much they like to fuck each other.

He heard something in the distance, and looked around to see what it was. It was coming from the protestors, but it wasn’t one of the boomers talking about marriage. It was some social justice warrior yelling at them about “queer liberation” and “capitalism.” The gray hood on his crop top and a black bandana was covering his face, and his black Jansport backpack was covered in pins.

Homonationalist looked at the SJW’s thick legs. He was wearing thigh high socks, with yellow, white, purple and black stripes, that almost came up to the boy’s round ass. Homonationalist knew that yellow, white, purple and black were the colors of one of those pride flags for some identity that made the gay community look bad, but he didn’t remember which one.

Homonationalist also noticed some police officers moving to the area. Obviously, they would be justified in protecting the protestors from this screeching crybully, but Homonationalist wanted to help. At least if he snatched the SJW away from the dangerous situation, the two of them could watch the parade together.

He worked through the crowd to get to the protestors and the SJW. When he got there, he tapped the SJW’s shoulder and said, “Hey, we really need to go.”

“Ree!” the SJW shouted. “Who are you?”

“There’s cops on their way. Let’s go.”

“Cops are racist!”

“Is that so bad? Don’t answer that.”

The Homonationalist grabbed the SJW’s hand. His skin was soft, but calloused, like the world had unfairly taken some of that softness away. As they ran through the crowd together, the SJW noticed the cops behind them and started to laugh. 

“What’re you laughing about?”

“Those racist pigs would’ve got me,” the SJW giggled.

They kept running until they were away from all the commotion. The Homonationalist tried to think of something to say, but the SJW beat him to it.

“My name is Post-Left, but you can call me Postie. Qui/quem.”

“What is a Kweekwum?”

“My pronouns are qui and quem. Like if you wanted to talk about me, you would say ‘Qui almost got arrested, but I saved quem.’”

“Right.” Homonationalist couldn’t believe they were talking to one of those alphabet people in real life. “I’m Homonationalist.”

“Thank you, by the way. I owe you one.”

“Well, if you really want to pay me back, I can think of a few things you can do for me.”

“Like what?” Postie looked nervous.

“Depends. Are you a top or a bottom?”

“Top, bottom, those are all spooks.”

“So you’re vers.”

Postie thought for a moment. Qui had never actually topped in quis life, but qui didn’t like the top/bottom hierarchy.

“Yeah,” qui said.

“Well then, maybe we could have a little fun. Do you want to come back to mine?”

This could be a bad idea, qui thought. Homonationalist had asked if racism was “that bad,” which meant he might be a fascist. But if he was a fascist, why would he save quem from the cops?

“Yeah,” Postie said, “let’s have some fun.”

They got to Homonationalist’s car, a pink Tesla. Homonationalist unlocked the door and Postie climbed in, throwing quis backpack in the back seat.

“Sorry you have to miss out on that little parade,” Homonationalist said.

Postie scoffed. “The only exciting part of pride is harassing the fascists that show up. Everything is controlled by companies that don’t care about queer people at all.”

“Right? It’s just a way for _them_ to promote an idea of what gay people should be like.”

Postie didn’t catch the antisemitism in the way that Homonationalist said “them,” as though there were three parentheses around the word.

“Exactly!” qui said.

“You know, Pride used to be about standing up for our right as gays to be degenerate freaks. Nowadays, we act like we’re supposed to be accepted into mainstream society with normal people.”

“Yeah! We should be proud to be freaks, not engaging in respectability politics.”

“There’s nothing respectable about what I want you to do to me.”

Postie blushed.

Homonationalist grabbed Postie’s hand, and pulled it onto his lap. Postie was still for a moment, but then began rubbing his inner thigh. The silence was awkward until Homonationalist blasted his Ke$ha playlist on the speakers. By the time they pulled into Homonationalist’s apartment, “C’mon” was playing Postie and had worked quis way up to Homonationalist’s hard cock.

“We can continue this inside,” Homonationalist said as he got out.

Postie grabbed quis backpack and followed him up the stairs. Postie realized that qui had never been in this part of town. Qui normally stayed in the slums, where there are plenty of abandoned homes to squat in and cops are too busy to harass a few lifestylists. Before then, Postie had stayed on the edge of town, in the fancy neighborhood where Ancap had the spare mansion he let the extremists use. Never had qui been in such a middle class area. 

The living room was immaculate. Postie put quis backpack down next to the black leather couch and sat down.

“It’s easier to clean up,” Homonationalist said with a wink before going into the kitchen. “Do you want anything to drink?”

“Do you have some kombucha?”

“Oh god, you’re one of those. I can make you a screwdriver.”

“Sure,” Postie said absentmindedly, as qui looked at something on the coffee table that caught quis eye. Qui didn’t believe it at first, but it was definitely an iron cross pin. Homonationalist put down two glasses and sat down on the couch, resting his feet on Postie’s lap before qui shoved him off.

“What the fuck is this, fascist?” Postie screamed, holding up the iron cross.

“Fascist? What are you talking about?”

“Why do you have an iron cross?”

“It’s not mine.”

“Oh? Have you been holding KKK rallies in here?”

“Not quite. Also, that isn’t even the group that uses the iron cross.”

“Explain yourself, fascist, or I’ll bash your head in!”

Qui went for quis backpack, but Homonationalist grabbed his hand and said, “It’s my boyfriend’s pin. He’s a - well, he calls himself a white identitarian. His name is Nazi, and he’s really sweet, when he’s not saying how disgusted he is with my degenerate lifestyle, or using me to make a point about how he’s not homophobic.”

“I hate being used,” the Postie sighed, thinking about quis ex.

“I normally love it, but I’m starting to think he doesn’t actually care about me.”

Postie adjusted, so qui was holding Homonationalist’s hands with an intimate intensity.

“You deserve better,” qui said. “I was dating this guy. Now I call him the Red Fascist.”

“You call everyone a fascist.”

Qui giggled. “Maybe. My ex, he was always trying to control me, telling me what I had to do and think, what countires I had to support. Every time I tried to talk to him about something, he would refuse to have a conversation with me because I didn’t read enough theory.”

“Wow, you were really dating a nerd.”

“But I left, and now I’m here with you. And you don’t seem like the type of person that would try to control someone else.”

“Of course not! I prefer to be the one that gets told what to do.”

Homonationalist smirked and leaned in. Postie met him halfway, giving him a brief peck and smiling. Homonationalist grabbed quis head and threw himself onto quem, kissing with reckless passion. He started undoing the zipper on Postie’s gray hoodie. In return, qui undid Homonationalist’s pink sailor tie and started hastily unbuttoning his shirt.

“For someone so feminine,” Homonationalist said, “you sure do like to be rough.”

Qui smiled, finding a strange validation in having quis androgyny acknowledged. The Red Fascist never made quem feel like that.

“I have lube in my room,” Homonationlist said. “Follow me.”

Homonationalist’s bedroom was lit by pink fairy lights. The walls were covered in vaporwave art. Postie, a fan of art, went to look a little closer at them as Homonationalist took off his pants and got the lube out of his bedside table.

One picture showed a marble bust of some Greek in front of a generic city skyline. In glitchy word art was written, “Long Live Europa.” Another was glitch art picture of a faceless 50’s housewife behind a white picket fence, with “Reject Modernity” and “Embrace Tradition” written in white letters on two black bars, one towards the top right and the other by the bottom left. A third depicted a Roman soldier standing with a spear. Behind him was a pink sky with what appeared to be the Black Sun setting, and towards the bottom was written, in a sort of neon style, “Defend Your Birthright.”

“You’re a fascist,” Postie whispered.

“Not this again.”

“This is fascist propaganda! Did your Nazi boyfriend leave these too?”

“No, I - so what? We disagree about politics.”

Postie ran to quis backpack and pulled out a small black baton. It wasn’t quis baseball bat, but it would have to do.

“What are you going to do?” Homonationalist laughed, following quem into the living room. “Hit me?”

Postie hit him in his leg, causing him to fall to his hands and knees.

“Shut up, fascist!”

Postie hit Homonationalist on his upper thigh, causing him to moan in pain. Qui did it again, savoring the tortured noise that Homonationalist made. Postie did it again, and again, and started to lose quemself in the kinetic pleasure of swinging, and the sweet symphony of suffering, until the Homonationalist collapsed to his side.

“How do you like that?” Postie said, catching quis breath.

Homonationalist looked up with a bratty grin and made the OK sign. Postie kicked him, angry that he was still dogwhistling his fascist beliefs.

“Come on,” he whispered, “let’s continue this in there.”

Postie froze, shocked by the audacity, as Homonationalist crawled to the bedroom and grabbed the lube. Qui was turned on, perhaps from Homonationalist’s naked, bruised body, perhaps from the sheer excitement of taking down another fascist. Qui took a deep breath and followed.

Homonationalist climbed onto the bed and pulled Postie’s shorts off, his mouth opening involuntarily when he saw the size of the bulge in quis panties. Postie took off those panties, and lubed up quis cock. Homonationalist bent over on the bed and whispered over his shoulder, “Punish my fascist ass, Daddy. I mean, Mommy, or whatever you are.”

“How many times do I have to tell you to shut up, you fascist scum!”

With that, Postie grabbed his hips and shoved quemself into the tight hole in front of quem. Homonationalist squealed as he was filled with quis hard cock. Postie was slow and deliberate at first, like qui was punishing Homonationalist with each stroke. But as qui got closer to cumming, qui started to move faster, less intentionally, thinking less about causing pain and more about getting pleasure.

Homonationalist could sense that Postie was enjoying quemself. There was something so degenerate in it all, he thought, something so depraved in how Postie had forgotten quis principles and was now only focused on quis own pleasure.

“Cum in me, you leftie fuck!” he shouted. “Fill my fascist asshole with your cum.’

That comment reinvigorated quis aggression. Pushing harder into Homonationalist’s asshole, thrusting with righteous anger, sent quem over the edge. Suddenly, Postie held still, filling Homonationalist’s hole before qui collapsed beside him on the sheets.

“You know,” Homonationalist said, “I didn’t believe you could top, at first.”

“I guess I can,” Postie said.

Postie put on quis panties before lying on the bed, on quis side. Homonationalist threw on a pair of pink pajama bottoms and big-spooned quem as qui fell asleep. Before Homonationalist joined them in slumber, he wrote his name and phone number on a scrap of paper and stuffed it into quis backpack.


	2. The Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Homonationalist and Nazi have a fight, then make up, and then have another fight.
> 
> Content warning: antisemitism, enbyphobia, homophobia

Homonationalist knew, on some level, why some people didn’t like to date short men. After all, men were supposed to be tall, right? Or at leas taller than women. Aside from that, looking up at someone makes you feel smaller than them, more vulnerable. That made sense to him.

But Homonationalist spent most of his life on his knees, so it didn’t matter if someone was taller than him or not - he was going to be looking up at them regardless. Besides, there were so many short men that spent their whole lives angry about their height, wishing they could take out that anger on a tall guy. Homonationalist  _ loved  _ being that tall guy.

So he didn’t really understand how serious it was when Nazi told him, “I wish I was taller than you, degenerate.”

They were at Homonationalist’s place laying on the couch, or rather Nazi was sitting up with his feet on the coffee table, and Homonationalist was laying down with his head on Nazi’s lap.

“I like that my closeted DL boyfriend is short,” Homonationalist laughed.

“I’m not short! You’re just freakishly tall.”

“Right, sure, just like your friend Minarchist, and that Russian, and that Conservative you told me not to talk to. Everyone is freakishly tall except for you.”

“Is that backtalk?”

“Maybe.”

Nazi grabbed Homonationalist by his neck and pulled him up, so their lips were only inches apart. He then whispered, “You will respect me, you filthy decadent.”

“Make me,” Homonationalist squeaked out. 

Nazi threw Homonationalist to the ground. Homonationalist crawled towards the bedroom, hoping to at least get fucked on his bed this time, but he was too slow. Nazi kicked Homonationalist over with his black boots and ripped off Homonationalist’s magenta dress.

Homonationalist staggered to his knees and started fiddling with the Nazi’s belt. Nazi kicked him to the ground.

“I can do it myself.”

Nazi undid his belt and unbuttoned his pants as Homonationalist got back on his knees. Nazi pulled out his cock. Homonationalist licked it from base to tip, savoring each inch, before Nazi grabbed the back of his hair and shoved him onto Nazi’s dick.

Homonationalist didn’t have a very sensitive gag reflex, and he could deepthroat even Nazi’s sizable cock, but it still wasn’t easy having the entire thing shoved into his throat. Nazi began throatfucking him, and Homonationalist’s eyes started to water a bit.

“God, I want to fuck your asshole, you disgusting crossdresser.”

Nazi shoved Homonationalist off and went to get the lube from the nightstand. Homonationalist took the chance to climb onto his bed and get on his hands and knees. Nazi finished taking off his pants and shoved his lubed cock into Homonationalist’s asshole.

“You’re supposed to go gentle at first, Daddy,” Homonationalist teased.

“And you’re not supposed to call me short.”

With that, Nazi started sloppily shoving his cock into the asshole in front of him. Homonationalist screamed, and Nazi couldn’t quite tell if it was a scream of pain or pleasure. To address the uncertainty, Nazi reached under Homonationalist to grab and twist his nipple. That scream was definitely pain.

“I’m going to cum in you, you freak,” Nazi said.

“Yes, Daddy, cum in me, fill me up!” Homonationalist moaned in the most feminine voice he could make.

Upon hearing that, Nazi orgasmed, pumping a bit more slowly to extract every ounce of pleasure from it that he could. Then, when he was finally done, he fell off.

“That was good,” Nazi said.

“Yeah, honey,” Homonationalist said absentmindedly as he walked into the living room to get his phone. When he found it, he saw that he had a Discord message from Postie. He only downloaded the app because Postie asked him to, and he was having trouble actually finding the message. He decided to figure it out after he went back into the bedroom to cuddle with his boyfriend.

“What are you doing?” Nazi asked.

“Oh,” Homonationalist said as he climbed into bed and checked the message. “Just checking a message from a friend.”

“Just a friend.” Nazi said. “What did this ‘friend’ say?”

“Oh, just asking to hang out. I’ll say I’m busy.”

Nazi ripped the phone from Homonationalist’s hands and started scrolling through the messages. 

“A lot of hearts and winks for just friends.”

“Why does it matter anyway? You said you’re looking for a girl to marry so you don’t have to engage in degeneracy anymore. I thought that meant we weren’t exclusive.”

“I’m the man here. I conquer, and if I am strong enough I can conquer many. You’re the woman. You are to submit to the strongest, and none else.”

“Sorry to pop your bubble, sweatie, but I’m not a woman and also I submit to a lot of people.”

Nazi saw a picture, and he recognized who it was.

“Wait, I know this degenerate. He’s Ancom, right?”

“It’s Postie now, and quis pronouns are qui/quem.”

“I can’t believe you’d cheat on me with him. He’s weak, and even more degenerate than you are.”

“Um, again, it’s qui/quem, and you’re the one that’s disgusted by degeneracy, not me. In fact, you’re the one that’s disgusted by me.”

“I’m not calling him ‘qui’ or ‘quem,’ and I feel like it’s a sign of betrayal that you’re defending him when you should be defending your faithfulness.”

“What do you want me to say, Nazi? You’re the only boy I care about. I’m defending  _ quem  _ because I promised to respect quis pronouns, and I’m not some Jew that goes back on his word. But I’m just having fun! Qui’s just some alphabet person I met at Pride when I was feeling lonely, because you didn’t want to go with me.”

Nazi slapped him.

“Stop talking for once in your life, you lispy queer.”

Homonationalist bit his lower lip.

“It has become clear to me that you’re a disloyal, backstabbing harlot who would have yourself be used by whatever rat looks your way.”

Homonationalist lifted his chin up a bit, so Nazi could grab his neck and choke him like the slut he was. Instead, Nazi collected his things and walked out.

Homonationalist couldn’t believe what had happened for a second. He waited for Nazi to walk back in, to hurt him like he was supposed to do. Instead, the room was empty and silent. Nazi was gone, at least for the night.

He started to cry. Nazi had been mad at him before, but he had always expressed that anger by hitting him. This was different. Nazi was hurt, even if he had no right to be, and there was nothing to do about it. Homonationalist wasn’t going to stop fucking other people for some closet case that had been looking for an excuse to dump him anyway.

He looked at his phone. Homonationalist never told Postie that he wasn’t available, and he really didn’t want to be alone that night. He wiped the tears out of his eyes and typed onto his phone:

_ yeah! bring your baseball bat :* i wanna be sore tomorrow _


End file.
